So Much for the Labour Party
by Random Minion
Summary: Marcus Flint is a confirmed Baddie who couldn’t care less about what’s going on in the Wizarding World. But all that may change after a chance meeting with Oliver Wood. Finding a purpose when the world goes to pot. MFOW
1. Off the Edge of the World

**

So Much for the Labour Party

**

**Chapter One: Off the Edge of the World**

I guess I had my share of being on top; captain of the Quidditch team is as much as a lug like me can ask. Don't get me wrong, I'm bloody good - for an amateur. 

There's no time for that now. The shop, it's in Knockturn Ally, is s a hive of tense activity these days. We're all watching, waiting for something; miracle, sign, whatever you what to call it, I don't care. The men in the street whisper about the Dark Lord's rising. I'm not up with all that; it just pisses me off. The tension gets into my shoulders, makes them stiff. When it comes I'll rush out with the rest. Overrun the Wizarding order; kick it down with my docks. 

Something like that, just because I have the Mark doesn't mean I know any more than the next bloke. So far there's only mumblings. The most I know I get from the old men down at the Brass Hind. 

They sit drunk as Higgs after a trip to Hogsmeade and somehow always know the way of things. As if through the bottoms of their mugs they can see the world and everything in it. Great, wizened, liver spotted Overlords. When I think of God, not that I do often, that's the image that comes to mind. It probably isn't the mugs themselves that hold the answers, but if these men or even God was lying, I wouldn't know, and I probably wouldn't give a rat's arse either. I just work here. 

I roll my knotted shoulders, pushing crates all day has its pains. Six, closing time. 

My job is just taking in the deliveries, in Knockturn Ally they come at any time, by men who shuffle quickly away in the hopes that the rats that peer out of the sewers will not notice them, maybe they don't know the rats don't give a damn, and nor do I. In the mornings I'll open the store wait for the bell in the back or the creek of the front door. If this place has a name I don't know it. it's a lousy job, three in the morning, and a walking ball of rags has a box at the door, but a jobs a job, and I'm good, because I don't give a damn. 

But tonight they can stuff their grungy boxes and suspicious crates up their robes. Tonight I am going out, I told Mr. Rothberg, the grizzled proprietor that I was going and not coming back, at least not any time soon. He was as always impressed with my vocal abilities, grinning toothily at me. "Enjoy yourself." He always says that. I still don't think I know what deeper meaning he implies. I'd rather not think about it. 

He's an interesting old fellow, a good master in a slimy sort of way conciliating and a closet supporter of Our Lord. Not one to stick his neck out. No that was my job, fight the good fight against the pigs in power support Our Lord. The only reason I can see why he hired me. Needed the image I guess, but more a man of Malfoy's colours, no loyalty to any save himself. The best of our kind of men, perhaps the best of any, completely objective - save for personal interest. 

He had his vices, who doesn't, his made me glad of my bad teeth, and ogre's frame. No one wants to fuck a troll, but long as he let me alone and my pay appeared on time -in cash- I figured it was none of my concern. If no nasty ministry men pounded in demanding to search for a missing person, he could do what he liked. Not that the law would likely descend upon any of us, Knockturn Ally has its own defences against the echelons of law-abiding society. 

But tonight I was out, I had bought myself a Quidditch ticket at great expense. Good seat; a sort of bimonthly treat. Tonight it was Puddlemere United against the Wadburry Bashers. I didn't have any alliances, good players on both sides, I was only in it for the game. Perhaps it's my way of having dreams. 

The game was scheduled to start at 6:30 on the Devon Green, Apparating didn't take long, but Rothberg would be less than lenient should he find I left the store without a proper shutting down. Pulling out my wand, I set the charms carefully. It had taken me forever to get them right. I locked the door behind me, trying it before I left. Apparation is one charm I can do well; really well, in fact. It comes in handy more often then you would believe in my line of work, day job and extracurricular. Apparating to Devon is really nothing if you're used to it. 

*** 

I decided to stop for a pint before the game, many of the games I go to are here, I know the area fairly well. If you are ever in the country the Brown Fox is cheep and not half bad if your goal is only to get pissed or if you don't mind somewhere a little seedy. The pub is always a bit hairy in the pre-game hubbub. It took me a few minutes just to make it too the bar. 

"I 'ear their new keeper is a force to be reckoned with. Here's a new fella." A man yelled to his friend a few stools away form where I had settled. I frowned gloomily as the gamester approached me. I am not going to fritter away my money, or become a sucker to some shark. 

At 6:20 the pub promptly emptied and we all headed towards the pitch en mass more joining us. I made my way to tower fiver, handing the parchment to the girl taking tickets at the entrance and took my stamp with what might possibly have been a smile. She was cross-eyed but not ugly. I couldn't tell if she was looking at me as she smiled or past me. It wasn't as if I was interested, but it's always nice to be admired. 

"Thanks," I mumbled as I passed. 

As I mounted the stirs a group of well to do wankers in polo jackets surged past. The world is just bloody excellent at times. I took my seat just as a horn blared for game start. 

The announcer introduced the teams; as each player speed out, each on their own shinny new Firebolt. I was too jealous to pay close attention. I've been saving for one since I stared work, and it looks like I'll be infirm before I get it. Either that or worse, they'll be out dated. The futility of my attempts punches me in the gut every time I think about it. 

"…Nuttel… Lipton… Wood." The disembodied voice bellows though the arena nearly deafening us. Lousy techs, can't get the charm right. 

Blue and orange robes fluttering zoomed around the stadium in their warm up lap and beautifully into position. I think of my own team. They would have wobbled. There was just something beautiful and about a perfect sweeping entrance like cutting with a Sabatier. The two teams hovered, tension humming, I could see them straining for the moment of release, like dogs to hunt. 

Thirty yards from my seat I caught the familiar anxious determined posture. The bastard had made it. Lived the dream I has been too afraid to follow. Wood sitting there on his broom stick, I really hate him. 

My Slytherin ambition has long since deserted me, frankly I doubt I ever really had it, I'm just a Hufflepuff gone sour. Couldn't have my nasty ways in with all those pure little lambs -sheep. I'm nothing more than a sheep my self, even if it has taken me years to see it. When the day comes I'll be sent to the sacrificial alter along with the rest of my kind. I guess I'm just too dumb to care. I can't be fucking bothered to see any other way. Might as well enjoy my time now. 

The tension of the game whizzes over me, however I feel strangely unmoved, remote. But I paid for this! Puddlemere is a great team and I'm bloody well going to pay attention wither I like it or not. It's not sure if I'll be able to get a ticket like this again. The old man's selling out soon. 

I fixed my eyes on the game, I will enjoy it, I will. No mistake about it. His style, those stupid exaggerated saves and the fairish way he's flitting between the posts, it's such a waste of energy, not to mention a bloody pain in the ass. The other team doesn't seem all that happy either. There is a great roar around me as Wood bats away the Quaffle with his broom tail - show-off. 

I don't wish to want to see the rest of the game. Puddlemere is crushing Wadburry, it's almost too humiliating. Wood hasn't let a goal in this game, and I can feel the tight anger in my stomach. I want to scream, why are these people such fucking losers, they are supposed to be good. They have no pride. I want to go home, but the fact that I paid for the evening holds me in my seat. My mind drifts away form the game whizzing around my head and back to my room, over Rothberg's shop. It's small, pathetic; this is all the mark on my arm has got me. A third rate existence, but what else would I have gotten without it? 

No dreams for me. Here I am, take me now! The crowed again rises around me - excited. If only I could be carried away by it, trampled to death. It can't be any worse then any other fate I'm in for. The nothing lying in wait for me will come eventually. Some barbaric uprising, another nameless plebe looking up to a man who probably doesn't even remember that I have pledged myself too him. Rather like Wood, king of the field. I wonder if he knows all these people are screaming for him, each individual. It was so pathetic, caring about individuality, individual problems; I can feel my self wanting to be sick. Yet I can't dismiss my desire to follow these people. They are my saviours because they draw so many. I can find my strength in theirs. 

I stayed, I paid so I stayed. I tried to pay attention to the skirmishes at the other end of the stadium, but Wood burned like a sty at the corner of my eye; irksome, painful and impossible to ignore, lurking in my peripheral vision. It was full dark when the Seeker, a scrawny Puddlemere United git caught the Snitch - with all the possible show he could draw out of it. It was disgusting. 

The crowed cheered and filled out babbling like so many overexcited animals, unaware of the emptiness of the whole game. I stayed, waiting till all was empty. Then leaned over the guard rails, a hundred feet below me I could just see the glimmering of a cushioning charm quilting the ground. Staged drama, nothing real, and nothing brutal to believe in, even that was gone. I spat over the rail, a disgusting habit for a disgusting evening. 

*** 

Actual Ale is stronger than Almost Ale, by about five percent. It's also darker and tastes heavily of malt, an acquired taste. I've had enough of it by now that it only tastes like another type of pigswill but it's cheep, and I'm not a cheep drunk so I have to be sure I'm getting every bit of slam for my sickle. This is my what? fifth? sixth? I couldn't care less, as long as it's working. 

I've been on this bar stool since I left the stadium and now I desperately need to take a piss, but I'm torn between going and staying since I don't want to lose my seat. Plus if you'll notice, it's rather rowdy in here. I'd rather not move. Bar fights aren't all ways the best thing when you're a Deatheater. A quick run in with the Aurors and you're toast in times like this. Toast with a nice thick layer of raspberry coloured pulp. I'd rather be neither. 

The gang in the booth behind me, I can't see them but their shouting is starting to get on my nerves. 

"That last catch was ruddy good, saw the way he just dived in there, that Shmoil has some bottom." 

"Best Seeker in the league if you ask me" 

"No one did Norm." 

"Nah'need to get nasty 'arvy" 

"I wasn't being nasty, but he's always saying that. Every time you take him to a game." 

Someone jostled me form behind. I could turn and break their nose, but I'm sure if he does it again some one else will do it for me. I can at least hope so. A mug is knocked over beside me. I think it might be time for me to take my leave. The ground sways as I stand. It's not as illogical as you think. The man coming this way, is big enough. I move away, unsteadily I grant you. The man who collided with me is now on the floor, in a moment I'm sure he'll be screaming. If I wasn't worried about being arrested I'd stay. I used to love bar fights. They make my blood rush. Alcohol and adrenalin, brutality and recklessness the best combinations. 

Outside the air is perceptibly colder. And the sweat that had collected while I was inside cooled leaving me which a sheen of cold, pinching me to my senses. I took a piss against the building. Watching it hit the wall and run down in a perfect parabola, deepening the dark of the shadows covering the cement wall. 

It's a long Apparation home. I don't think I can make it just yet. Not safely. Not with out being picked up. They are starting to really crack down on Apparators under the influence. The panic is on any excuse to bring people in and get them rolling up their sleeves. Zipping up my trousers I wander back across the deserted road towards the pitch. My feet aren't tired and I could use the exercise, it's more chilly than I thought. Fucking coat back in my room. I've never been good at transfigurations and summoning is out of the question. 

The stadium doors loomed in front of me - locked. What was the sense in a lock, I've always wondered. Pop. I Disapparated to my seat ending up a row ahead and two to the left. Not too shabby. He wondered if he had missed the box entirely wither the plunge would kill him. Falling head fist into a Quidditch pitch what a way to go. I stood hanging overt the guard rails. In the dark he was not sure if the cushioning charm was there or not would they remove it after the game? Holding on to the pole I mounted the railing, feeling the wind on my face, and the tingle in my toes as I realized how heigh I was. 

"Fucking World!" 

It was great, so fucking great standing here. Brink of death with the chance that the sweat of my palms would allow my hand to slip and oh so accidentally. I would fall; to what? The cushioning charm or nothing. It was exhilarating I could feel the adrenalin pumping. A world cup game's worth of hormone rushes. A Hogwarts championship's game of recklessness all in this dark empty place. Alone my blood racing, I could almost fly. The stars were bright. I wish I had my broom, I was earth bound by only a sweaty hand on a shaky poll. I was tripping. Euphoria, and I let go. 

The plunge was only momentary, and I hit the ground, hard, bruisingly hard, even with the goddamn cushioning charm. It had been there all along and I had known it. They don't re-charm a whole stadium every game, it's too much work, I knew it. I lay in the grass and smacked the ground. Cheap. Cheap goddamn dramatics. 

The grass was just slightly wet, almost black now that the light is gone. I pick myself up. My back aching, my shoulder feeling as if it were on fire, still it didn't make the fall any less of a pathetic plea for uniqueness in this rotten shit pit world. Minions don't get air time, get over it. 

The ground is too perfect. It felt almost like a crime to walk on it. Thinking about it, being there now was probably against somebody's rules. But I can shrug things like that off much easier than a bar fight. Taking off my shoes and socks I run my toes through the grass ripping at it as I walked. All this sodding perfection. Is it our nature to destroy everything or am I just lucky? 

At the center of the field I tune and stumble, the grass catches me, easing me down; mother nature, magically tamed. Why do we manipulate her to hug when she wants to slap me, crack the back of my head on some stone. The perimeters of the stadium rose at the corners of my eyes as the vast night of stars filled the sky above me; emeses and impersonal. We can't taint heaven, Wizards or Muggles. We can obscure it with our foul gases or cover it with spells, but the stares still shine on, and somewhere someone can see them. Orion is clear in the sky, I lie down here under him. He'll mount the sky and not give a fuck. A one night stand on repeat. When he fades in the morning who cares? He'll be back. He has that assurance. 

I close my eyes and drift. I could be floating. On this unnatural ground I'm sure it's possible. To reassure myself I dig my fingers into the perfect grass, pulling it up in handfuls, eyes closed I bring it to my nose. It smells clean, and fresh, like the dirt under it. The damp is gathering and I can feel the universal film of dew settle over everything around me. Everything is a reaction to something that came before it, like the goose pimples on my arms and the damp back of my shirt. Each blade of grass is unique but we don't notice, neither does the dew. I can feel sleep creeping towards me; I can hear its foot steps. 

"Oi, What do you think yer doing here?" 

*** 

**Reviewing Made Easy™**

For all those of you that just don't know what to say it's as easy as copy and past! Take the review form and past it into the review window. What could be simpler! 

( ) Great work, write more!!! really I can't think of anything else to say!!1! ; P  
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( ) I love the part when (enter part here.)   
( ) I think you could really improve on (enter suggestion here) *NOTE* if you can suggest something you think I can improve on I'll love you forever.   
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( ) Ooo an obscure paring, yummy!   
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( ) Shut your mouth and open your mind!   
( ) Can you notify me when you update. 

All comments are welcome. Hope you enjoyed. More as soon as it's Spellchecked. 


	2. Newsprint Futility

**Warning: **Contains limited non-erotic sex, but sex nonetheless.****

AN: Thanks a bunch to my very appreciated beta Sylvey. With out her I doubt I would have gotten this checked for another month or so. Check out her stuff. If you have the chance. Oh and as always thanks to all of you who have reviewed, I do really appreciate it especially when the pairing seems to have such a lax following. 

Chapter Two: Newsprint Futility

"Oi, What do you think yer doing here?" 

The soft Scottish brogue was not exactly what I would have imagined sleep to sound like, more southern and middle class. 

"Sleeping." 

"Yer nough' allowed 'ere." 

"I'm not allowed to do much. I do it anyway." 

This was obviously not sleep. Sleep didn't sound eerily like Oliver Wood, definitely not. He was standing over me, blocking the stars and lost in shadow, fumbling in his robes. It took only a split second for me to realize what he was doing and I shut my eyes. Even closed the light spell shone red though my eyelids. 

"Turn off the bloody light." 

"Ah could nought see." 

Warily I opened my eyes, shading them with my hand. Blood rushing in my temples, it was Wood. 

"Why ah y'ere?" he asked again. 

"I could ask you the same thing." I replied resenting his standing there, towering over me - he had new shoes too. 

"Ah forgot me robes," he said. I keep him waiting for my answer, gazing up at the stars instead. 

"Came to see the game," I grunted at last., raising. Getting up was far more difficult than lying down, I found myself swaying uncomfortably, well if he couldn't smell the drink on me before, I doubt that he had any further doubts about my state. I'm not drunk, nowhere near, but I'm not sober either. 

"Do yer 'ave a place arroun 'ear?" 

Stupid question, I'd told him I was in London the last time we met. He'd come down once - just once. A week after graduation, blathering on about Quidditch, I had hated him for it. Said nothing just fucked him against the back wall. Quidditch and sex, it seems the two are impossibly intertwined. Both rough, animalistic, brutal fun. I wanted to enjoy it all again, but somehow it had lost its appeal. Meaningless like the showy moves his team used. 

"Fuck and games Wood," I leered at him. "You know where I live." 

I stumbled forward like Jesus on choppy water. I wonder did he ever trip? No he'd probably be like Wood, striding with total faith in his bitchgod, and infinitely fucking humane. 

"How ah yer getting back then?" As if he had the right to look concerned. "Knight bus?" 

I guffawed. 

"I'm going back to the pub." Who cared, I could have slept here if he hadn't come along. I stomped to the gates, they were locked of course. I was feeling ill, and a headache was starting to fog my fuzzed mind. "Yer can't Apparate home!" he yelled after me, running up. Of course not; I wasn't some idiot like Prucy; going out of his way to get himself splinched. 

"No, but I can get so drunk I won't feel the damp." I snapped, hoping he would be able to open the gate. I felt too sick to trust myself Apparating around it. Wood just stood there. 

"Ah don't 'ave a key." I cursed him. 

"Dan'na move." Suddenly he grabbed me. What the fuck? We are out. POP! 

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing!" I yelled as we reappear, it's cold and open. A field somewhere. 

"Ah'm takeing ya'ome." 

I. never. ever. Apparate with other people. It's just plain dangerous, too easy to get splinched. I'm not half bad at Apparating, but I would never take someone. Wood had lost his mind. I'd rather Apparate myself even as I am then have him do it. 

"Where the fuck are we" 

"Under-wollup." 

"Where?" 

"There's ah port key it'll take us upter London" he turns away and just walks off. I stalk after him, hands in my pockets. It was getting damp. 

Under the step of the stile at the edge of the field is a tread bare wheelbarrow tire and a muddied red scarf. Wood picks up the scarf. 

"Hold on." I did, it was muddy. 

I'm jerked though warped space into the middle of Trafalgar square. Oliver drapes the scarf over a statue. 

"Lipton'll need it in da morning" 

He walked off and I followed; just trailed him as he rattles on. He's desperate, wants me to talk. I watch him. He's probably running out of things to say. Desperate not to be left in silence but I wouldn't let him play off me. 

"Did ye like da game?" he asked finally. I let the question hang. We walked to the end of the block. There is a tavern, despite the hour it's still open. 

Wood nods to the dozing bartender and stalks over to the fireplace. I don't know what to say about the game. I didn't mean to make him wait this long. Now it seems I can't say anything at all. 

He throws some floo powder into the measly licks, all that are left in the grate. "33a Bergamot," he said, pulling me through the fire with him. Again, the disconcerting warp. 

We stumble into a living room. I've not been to his flat. I didn't even know he was in London. That's a lie. I knew if I had cared to think about it. There is a worn tweed couch and a couple of chairs. A few magazines are strewn around and a couple of coasters, stray cans and underwear. 

"It was contrived." 

"Wha decha mean?" 

He looks at me. He thinks I mean the room. 

"The game; it's all show." 

He doesn't answer. 

"Do'yer want ah drink?" 

He treads over to the kitchen. I follow and peer past the open bedroom door as we pass. A double bed - unmade. I can foresee the end of this evening. He's spelled the light to glow from a bulbless lamp above the table. It glows down on the stools. It's a good kitchen. There are dishes in the sink and a tea bag staining the counter. The tiles are hard and the cupboards are a faded half-hearted green. 

"Thea?" he asks as he holds up a sloshing kettle. 

"Sure." 

I sit on one of the stools at the counter. He has his back to me. It's a nice place he has. 

"How much is this place?" 

"70 gallons a month." 

I grimace. I barely make that much. Then again I get loggings. 

"Nice place." 

"Thanks." 

The kettle whistles. He pours me a mug and hands it to me the tea bag's little white tag hanging over the edge. He smiles. 

"It's nice ter'ave yer 'ere" 

He turns away to get milk. And I spoon sugar into my cup, squishing the tea bag against the side of the mug when I'm done. 

"I thought you'd still be living with your parents." 

"Nah. Da was going crazy. 'E was that happy ah made dah team. Ah'm livging 'is dream. It's ta much ta take. He jus' goes on and on, wants to show me off ta all 'is friends down pub. Ah miss me mam's food." He says looking glad I asked him something. 

I fish out the tea bag, and he pours milk into my tea. I have no idea why he remembers. We can't have sat like this many times before. 

"How do you take your tea?" 

"Da'na ye know?" I shake my head. 

"Jus milk." 

I'll forget. I drank my own tea. It's too hot, scalding my tongue. It'll hurt in a bit. 

"I'm getting tired." 

It was once our code. If he remembered the tea surely he remembers that. I watch him, he gets up, smiles. 

"Come, ah'll fin' yer ah toothbrush." Again I follow him, this time to his washroom, he must only have one, for the toilet is there too. 

Wood started rummaging through drawers, while I took a piss. 

"'Ere," he said, as I zipped up. 

He hands me a long plastic covered packet - a toothbrush. I worry at the plastic, unable to break the maximum security hygienic seal with my chewed fingernails. Fuck. 

"Ah'll do it in ah moment." Wood says from the toilet. 

I waited watching him, in his bathroom, with it's spring print plastic shower curtain, and yellow duck shaped soap dish, his diminished bar of Pears. I doubt the soap in my loo has been touched. This is the WC of a Good Man. That fact is just inescapable. My head is aching dully, and I'm probably dehydrating, I can feel myself sweat. Turning on the tap I pick up the soap, wash my hands. It smells pleasant, not overbearingly perfumed. Rinse the suds away, Wood is watching or I would never do it. But I'll still drink from the tap. It's warm at first but as I drink the temperature drops. 

Wood nudges me, reaching over for the soap. I'm panting water caught in the stubble on my chin. 

"Ya should 'ave more care fer yer 'ands." Wood said his own lathered in suds. My eyes hurt from staring. Turning up the tap, rotating the soap in his hand, putting it aside. His hands rub together, sensually loving each other covered 

"My toothbrush." 

"Er- sorry." He rinses his hands leaving the water to run. 

He seems to know just were to pull, the plastic comes sliding off, and he turns presenting me with the translucent green brush. I took it helping myself to his toothpaste as he reaches for his own brush. We stand in silence, both foaming at the mouth. Silence seems to be the order of the day. I stare at him in the mirror, he's examining his teeth, reaching for a roll of floss, and only the good can care for their teeth to such an extent. He'd shame the Japanese. When I spit the foam is tinted pink and my gums sting. 

He flicks off the lights and we stand in the dark. 

"Where am I sleeping?" 

"An' where da ye wanna sleep?" He asks, there is something in his voice. I would swear he was flirting with me. I snort. 

"In bed." 

"Come." He says his voice normal again. My muscles are aching to sleep yet something is a disappointment in this. 

We strip in the dark, eyes adjusting. I hear him slipping under the covers; I do so too, my back to him. The ache in my head is worse. Perhaps it's just more noticeable because I've got nothing more to distract me, I can hear him breath. It sounded softer than Rothberg, when he napped at the store, which was failing, was Rothberg not showing enough support for the lord? I'd have to find something else. I wanted to get on my broomstick and fly away from it all, with birds who's wings brushed me, brushing my calf. 

"Ah missed yer." Not birds. 

"Hummmm." 

Wood had come over, was lying against me, touching me. I wanted to move away. It's not like I would mind if we fucked, I just don't like him so close doing anything, just lying there. What does he want. 

"Ah di'nought know ha ter reach you." Wood almost whispered. 

"You knew where I was." If he'd wanted to come he could have. 

He was quiet. It's scary to go into Knockturn Ally if you don't know your way, even the owls are wary. The stones of the road, the bricks, they know you. It's creepy to walk in and be read, you can feel the prickle of them setting out invisible feelers, knowing your purpose, judging you. To hide disguised and still have the very walls see you don't belong. He still could have done it. 

"Why de'yer live in da god-curse place?" He could worry all he wanted, I didn't tell him to join, take the mark. 

"It's home Wood. Home, why do you live here, why do you join them, your guys?" I could feel myself getting angry, and tired. The choice was made. Over. 

"'Cause they're da good guys." Fucking simplistic. I snort. 

"We de'nought kill da innocent." he said too fast. Christ, he doesn't even need to think. Completely blinded by their fucking Goodness. 

"No you don't, you just shove them into holes, ghettoize them, look down on them, fear them, marginalize them, and expect them not to retaliate. No, you let other things kill them." I was shouting though he was only inches away. I could feel him flinch. Good. Maybe he'd see. 

"Yer 'na who is killin' Muggles. Yer leader is ah madman, how is dat redeemable?" 

Yes the dark lord is a horrible man, but not a hypocrite. Not a saint who looks the other way. 

"He's not some blind saint. He's getting revenge for himself and for us. So what if he's not a great guy. He's leading us out. We have strength again. So what if he's shit-face insane, he's our fucking Jesus." 

"Ah jus' wanah know yer ok." Oh fuck. 

"I'm fine ok." 

"Ah'm fine too." What the hell happened to us? Who cares what happens? This is just passing friction, right? 

He has his arms around me, spooning. Nuzzling my neck, it's sensitive, to the shadow of growth on his chin. Rough, nice. 

"When ah'll it ah'll be over?" Tonight? 

"Ahhh-umm." I reach for the back of his head, bringing it closer. His breath is hot. He can come to me. I don't want to fight with him for the top. He can think he's got me, make him happy. 

He crawls over me, straddles me, kisses me wetly. He likes to kiss, though I can never see the attraction. His lips stay on mine as he fumbles with the bedside drawer, why doesn't he just stop and concentrate on getting it. He eventually gives up and has to get off me, turn on the lamp. I grin. 

"Classic." He's blushing, his back to me. 

He does have a great back. All muscled, only a few spots on his shoulders, not like mine. In the lamplight it looks, better, the colour of roasted potatoes. His plaid shorts have slipped down. I reach over and tug at the band, manhandling him. He must have found what he wanted because he slaps my hand away. I laugh going after it again. 

"Stop it!" 

"Why?" I ask, "You'd do the same." 

"Aye." He clicked the light off; he remembered I prefer doing this in the dark. I let him place my legs as he likes. Let him touch, fondle. It feels good to let go, and he's gentle, likes being gentle, likes being loving. I can see his outline as he crouches over me, indulging me. The cloud with the silver lining. 

I try to stay disconnected as he shoves his dick into me, not unkindly. Restrain my hand from wandering down to my own. I can't. I can never keep my head when this starts. 

"It-it's only frict-oh fuck." I can't stop it. I'm an animal like any other. Wood is rutting over me, I can feel sweat from on my legs. It's on his too. Connected in friction. 

"like dah't?" his voice is strong urging me to respond it jabs into me. 

"Oh yeah!" I say, repeating it over and over, my muscles contract and I feel myself come. 

He comes shortly, and withdraws himself, carefully removing his soiled condom. We've never gone bareback, I don't know why he needs such things. I'm not sick. I just assumed it was part of his general obsession with cleanliness. He gets up and leaves. I can here the taps running. I wipe myself off on his sheets. It's my side of the bed, and I don't mind. I know he'll change them anyway, no matter. 

My headache is gone, but my eyes are too heavy to open, I could be floating, like back at the pitch. I hear him coming back, slipping into bed beside me. it moves under his weight, throwing off my center and sending me diving down into nothing. He'll want to snuggle. He'll have to come here I'm not coming down. 

His hand brushes my stomach. 

"Di'nought go back. Stay 'ere." 

*** 

I woke up needing to take a piss, but not wanting to get out of bed. Eight o'clock maybe. I had my back to the window shilding myself from the overly optimistic morning light. Wood never believed in decent blinds. I could hear him still snoring lightly. I got out of bed careful not to rock the bed. He had his mouth open, his arms relazed at his sides, and his head slipping off the pillow; a normal guy, sleeping like normal people sleep. I wonder what I sleep like? I'm sure Wood's watched me, I'm not about to ask. 

Naked I head to the loo. It's warm enough here to walk about without clothes. I take a piss trying not to think about how clean and normal it is in here. The soap looks accusing there on its yellow duck. Like the old lady in the bus who frowns when you try to adjust yourself. I wash my hands and brush my teeth. I need a new toothbrush back home. My old one's falling apart. This one's nice. Not too hard. I put it down and head back to the bedroom, get dressed. 

I have to rummage around Wood's kitchen. The only thing he has is cereal, Wheatabix and a can of orange juice. I have to wash my own bowl and spoon from the pile waiting beside the sink. Orange juice is no substitute for milk. It's disgusting. I concentrate on the cereal. I'll have to be at the shop by 9:30. My shoes are back in the bedroom. He's still there, still asleep. I'm scared to make a sound odd since I know I never wake him when I snore. How many times have we come fisticuffs, and now I'm afraid to face him in the morning. It's ridiculous. I don't want to stay. Not here. Not in a place where the mere presence of soap dishes guilt me into washing my hands. 

I have a life. Sure it's not what he wants but it's mine and who is he to tell me what to do. I don't care what he thinks. He knows what I am. Knocturn Ally is my home. I roll up my sleeve and look at the mark. I'm no one special, just another minion to him, but I'll still support him. He is our leader. Not Dumbledore, not the ministry. Not those self-righteous wizards who want to help. They can't they won't and they don't. He is our saviour. 

I'm not going to stay here. Not to be Wood's pet lost cause. Not to be rescued. I don't fucking need it. I have my lord. He has his. I have my own independence and place. I walk out the door. Into the hall and out into the street. It's a nice area. Good respectable wizards. They don't know shit about my life, they don't give shit either. I'll have to walk to Knockturn Ally. It's not far, the floo we took last night must have taken us into the Wizarding annex. 

I pass a newspaper box. The copies of the daily profit folded neatly inside read: Exclusive: how HWMNBN keeps his men: brainwashing and torture. I kick the box. Hard. Dent it. The fuckers, they don't know. "Well sucks to you." I shout running towards the ally. 

The streets get more dingy, and I can feel the walls welcoming me back. Letting me in. My place, amongst my people. Pulling out my wand I un-charm the shops door and turn the sign over. Whatever my fate has in store it is here. 

The bell rang and a bundled hag hobbled in. 

"Eeeeii of newt, eeeei, in glass. Greeeeen greeennn, eeen een." 

I found it a bottle of newt eye, we have a pile of papers under the counter, some Wizarding some not we used for wrapping. This one's front page read Labour party losing public support. Muggle politics? I crumpled it as I wrapped the bottle. So much for the Labour Party, I thought as I handed the bag to the hag. My hand brushed against her. She drops some coins and retreats. 

"A good booooie" I heard as she hobbled out. 

To whom? 

*** 

**Reviewing Made Easy™**

( ) Whoa man whoa, that was great, dude. Lolz!  
( ) Ya like write more! Hehez  
( ) Is that the end?   
( ) I thought your characterization was (great, good, average, in great need of improvement.)   
( ) OMG it was so funny/sad when (enter part here.)   
( ) Don't you just love one night stands.   
( ) So like what is the deal, are they like in love and you just didn't write it?!?   
( ) Great ending. Makes you think…   
( ) Marcus gets action, ooooo!   
( ) Wow, you don't see Oliver on top much, (cool, not cool)   
( ) Maybe so but there has to be some turn over don't you think.   
( ) Stop talking like that I'm a minor~   
( ) Well you really shouldn't have read this should you.   
( ) Shut up you old hippy, no more free love, not on FF.net at any rate.   
( ) I'm adding you/this story to my favorites list, thanks for the read.   



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